


Plėtotis

by bonelines, howlscastle



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Anal Sex, Animalistic, Blood and Gore, Cannibalism, Canon-Typical Violence, Dubious Consent, Everything Will Be Explained, Explicit Sexual Content, Feral Behavior, Feral Will, Hurt/Comfort, Memory Loss, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Rough Sex, Will doesn't remember anything, lots of emotions in this one, nothing really makes sense at first
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-17
Updated: 2016-08-31
Packaged: 2018-06-02 17:54:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6576583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bonelines/pseuds/bonelines, https://archiveofourown.org/users/howlscastle/pseuds/howlscastle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Moonlight cuts through the trees and floods over him; it’s then, that Hannibal is allowed a better look. However, when greeted with a familiar face, the man can feel the world the surrounds them spiraling away, bleeding out like ink onto paper and staining old notes of scribbled clocks and mathematical equations. A frown, down-turned on curved mouth and brows knit into a furrow, this man’s features are sharp and carved out from the same marble that Hannibal can recall to memory from a time before. The man’s gaze burns into into him like no other ever could.</i>
</p><p>  <i>Those eyes. </i></p><p>  <i>Hannibal knows those eyes. He could pick the color out from an endless array of paints and pigments, finding just the right shade and pointing to it, knowing without question that the color belonged to Will Graham.</i></p><p> </p><p>  <b>An AU in which, after their fall off the cliff, Will goes missing. Two years later, Hannibal is in-hiding on his own and Will reappears, but he's not the same person that he used to be and he can't remember who Hannibal is.</b></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> When reading, assume that everything taking place beforehand is canon - this story takes place post-finale. Will is pretty feral to begin with and he has no memory of his past, including everything involving Hannibal, but things will progress. There are supernatural elements, but they will be kept subtle and tasteful, we promise. Just use your imagination for this one; the story surrounding the situation itself is what's important. Keep in mind that tags are subject to change as we go and this was not beta'd, just edited by the both of us!

The night air is crisp enough to bite at the flesh, and the full moon hangs low in the sky, dawn only a few mere hours away— however, while the landscape glows an eerie blue, everything is still barely a breath of wind between the trees.  _ Something _ is off. 

 

Fresh home from a kill, hands coated slick with blood from where the body bag had split open with the weight, Hannibal’s senses are honed sharp to be hyper vigilant, on the lookout for danger. 

 

He is being watched.

 

Standing stock-still, his gaze scans the horizon and seeks to peer into the shadows of the forest just beyond the yard line. A change in scent and Hannibal’s head snaps round, his hands fly up on instinct— this is a predator he simply _can’t_ take down in hand to hand combat. 

 

The snarling wolf, with hackles raised, must have caught the scent of blood and now has found himself a meal. Neither moves for a long moment, all before there is a flash of fur and steel. The wolf lunges for Hannibal’s throat, fangs bared and maw split wide with a feral growl; Hannibal collapses beneath, but not before sinking a blade in the beast’s shoulder, earning a broken yelp in response. 

 

Hannibal’s grunts turn into loud and broken hollers as razor-sharp teeth tear his arm open and his own blood—  _ his own blood! _ spills over him in a rush of crimson that stains the surrounding snow black in the moonlight. He kicks up with powerful legs, but instead of boots planting in fur, he hits skin. Eyes opening, Hannibal meets the brilliant blue gaze of a furious young man, whimpering with pain, the knife buried deep in his shoulder.

 

Hannibal blinks, disbelieving, but the agonizing pain of his own gaping flesh quickly grounds him back in the moment and all his good, doctorly instincts kick in. Ripping his shirt, he binds his wound and rolls to his side, “Don’t move.” He tries to examine the other man’s wound, but is greeted with a growl and snapped bite in his direction, brilliant white teeth bared to the soft, glowing light of the moon. “Hush!” Hannibal hisses, only to be met by another whimper as the man tries to scurry away.

  
  
He doesn’t make it very far. 

  
  
Completely naked— that same light of the moon catching on every edge of his body to paint a silver lining that is stark against the dark of the night that cradles them. Bare and carved from marble; all long, powerful limbs with muscle wound tight underneath soft skin, where the man remains nearly curled in on himself, stumbling through the snow and trembling in both his pain and the sting of the cold against his now-naked flesh.

  
  
“Ah— “ It’s the first time Hannibal is  _ really _ able to pick up on the other’s voice, hitched and pained as hands reach to grasp at the protruding handle of the knife buried in his shoulder, clumsy and unsure of what to do as fingers try to pull the blade free from flesh and tight muscle. All that results is another pained cry and the knife being instantly released. A moment of flustered understanding— Hannibal can, quite literally, see the frustration cross over the man as he comes to the realization that he isn’t getting the knife out without the other’s help. A look cast over his good shoulder in Hannibal’s direction and a more forceful huff is exhaled out, bordering on a sigh, in the midst of panted breaths to ride out on the heavy rise-and-fall of his chest.

  
  
Slowly, Hannibal draws nearer, cutting paths through the blanket of white that covers the frozen ground. As he gets closer, he can make out the patterns of dark red that paint over a heart-shaped mouth, smeared down the hard line of his jaw and over the hollow of his throat, to couple that stains that burn just as dark and run down smooth skin from where the blade remains lodged in flesh. The man is eyeing him cautiously, the smallest hint of a growl humming in the chasm of his throat in warning as he approaches and watches for any movement that might be deems too-sudden.

  
  
Moonlight cuts through the trees and floods over him; it’s then, that Hannibal is allowed a better look. However, when greeted with a familiar face, the man can feel the world the surrounds them spiraling away, bleeding out like ink onto paper and staining old notes of scribbled clocks and mathematical equations. A frown, down-turned on curved mouth and brows knit into a furrow, this man’s features are sharp and carved out from the same marble that Hannibal can recall to memory from a time before. The man’s gaze burns into into him like no other ever could.   
  


_ Those eyes.  _

 

Hannibal knows those eyes. He could pick the color out from an endless array of paints and pigments, finding just the right shade and pointing to it, knowing without question that the color belonged to Will Graham.

 

A ghost. A trick of memory. Grief-stricken insanity. Or simply wishful thinking. The name dropped from his lips for the first time since that day at the cliff, soft and warm - a tentative whisper.

 

“Will?”

 

Speaking his name felt like shattering a dream and dropping into reality with a hard smack that rocked him to his bones. A tidal wave of memory washes in through the brush and sweeps him away for a moment, carrying Hannibal to another moment in time when the air had cut past him, raking harsh fingertips over his flesh, just before his body had collided with the cold, angry wall of the Atlantic waters. He had held onto Will for as long as he could, both clutching and reaching out to grasp for the surface, on instinct. The waves had been so strong and had knocked the air from their lungs, forcing them against rock and sand, just before the world had gone dark.

  
  
And when Hannibal had come-to, he had been alone on the shoreline. 

  
  
He can still remember searching for him, staving off the ache in his chest and the burning hole in his side as the chill of the ocean breeze clawed down to bone. He can remember when he had given up and had finally fled the area, knowing that he would be found soon, had he stayed. Most of all, Hannibal remembers running to Canada, where he had been for the past two years now, in hiding— unable to bring himself to go too far. Perhaps if he had stayed on the same shores of the same ocean, the younger man would wash up somewhere— a futile dream, but one he had chased as he’d walked the shoreline night after night. And every night after his long, futile walk, he would tune into the news for some kind of sign that Will Graham had been found alive, even after all this time.

  
  
A sign had never come and slowly, like losing each broken shard of their shattered teacup to the howling winds, Hannibal had lost hope. And now, it seemed, his sanity. Everything was just… slipping away and yet, still right  _ here. _

  
  
When a pained, impatient sound tears the man from the many images of his memory palace, he takes another second to study the man in front of him. Messy dark hair cradles his features, scruff lining the edge of his jaw and ending where it meets the column of his neck. Will looks younger, in that the features hidden behind blood and overgrown stubble are much softer— more porcelain. It makes Hannibal question himself and question the mess of a man in front of him, silently searching for some kind of answer, and some sort of concrete proof.

  
  
He finds proof in the form of a crooked scar that smiles up at him from the shivering slope of the boy’s belly. A crack in the marble, one of many, and this one— the best, had been given to him by a friend. Hannibal feels a powerful wrench in his gut at the sight of it, but doesn’t have time to dwell before the urgency of the situation insists that he help the boy with the knife. 

 

Hannibal tries to approach, but just like any wounded animal, the man - Will’s - first instinct is to attack when approached. Split maw with gnashing teeth, he lunges with a snarl and sends Hannibal stumbling back to lean against a tree. Will lands with a thump of bloodied limbs at the older man’s feet, still snarling, but obviously conserving energy and Hannibal keeps a keen eye on him, dragging his tongue across his lip as he rakes through memories of caring for Will’s dogs. Scent might be the one thing to calm the man long enough for him to get close enough to examine the wound. On bended knee, he crouches low and approaches, keeping his eyes averted to avoid confrontation. His arm is outstretched, Will can choose to attack or scent - an act of trust. Hannibal moves with slow, clearly telegraphed movements until he is close enough to see that this will be no simple job. If he simply pulls the knife out there is a very real chance Will could bleed to death— the young man is already showing the dizzying signs of blood loss as he starts to sway.

 

Unsteady, almost clumsy, the other man eyes the extended hand that’s offered and a growl jumps up from the deep chasm of his throat in answer, every muscle tensing and threatening to spring once again. Time ticks by a couple seconds and the snarl dies down to leave silence between them, save for the howling of the wind— and then, finally, Will leans in to drag in Hannibal’s scent cautiously, eyes still trained to watch for any sudden movement. It’s a quick sweep, nose brushing ever-so-slightly over the top of the offered hand as nostrils flare, and there’s a flicker of  _ something _ in Will’s gaze then; a flash. Pupils stretch outward and the brunet stills completely, blinking up towards the other man as if trying to remember something just out of reach.

 

Will never quite reaches it, before it’s pain that flashes over his expression once again, brows knitted and a yelp torn from his parted lips as he crumples again, stumbling as his voice carries just as sharp as the knife that remains lodged into flesh and muscle.

 

Head hung low, exhausted from grief and pain, Hannibal considers his options, his mind racing to keep ahead of emotion. Will’s groans and howls of pain grow ever-louder to the point that the night and all of Hannibal’s senses are drowned out by it. Looking down at the ground below, the white snow is painted entirely black beneath him—  _ blood _ . That is what had drawn Will near in the first place.

 

His chest heaves with a deep breath as Hannibal starts to unwind the bandage around his arm and the further the material unwinds, the faster his breath and heart begin to further race. Even for Hannibal, a master of self control, this level of pain is beginning to affect the way the moves and works through it. The last of the tacky, blood-soaked material falls away and the world spins around him for a moment, biology winning out and drawing him to his knees as his gut churns with the agony of opening up the wound again. But as Will’s howls turned to wet growls that slipped over blood and drool stained lips, his lank form rising to a crouched hunch in preparation to pounce once again, Hannibal’s adrenaline spikes and he finds the energy to run. 

 

This is his design. He knows that no predator alive can resist giving chase to wounded prey. 

 

Boots slipping and crunching through the snow, Hannibal weaves his way back to the house, Will snapping and clawing behind him all the way. Rapidly exhaled puffs of white breath are cast into the night air as lungs worked furiously in his chest and Hannibal switches his gaze back and forth between the glowing house ahead and the feral man closing in behind. The only way he manages to stay ahead is because every leap and bound causes the knife in Will’s shoulder to rip further, lengthening the gaping line of flesh down from clavicle to ribs.

 

Hip and shouldering his way through the house, blood runs free from his cradled arm; a fresh trail for Will to follow. Hannibal makes a sprint for his office, shoulders angled forward and powerful legs pushing him through the final stretch as he skids to knees, down beside where he his medical kit is kept. A mere second later, however, the sound of the door slamming shut cracks loud in the air and the room then echoes with a low, ripping snarl that seems to circle around him. 

 

Turning slowly, Hannibal catches Will’s wild-blue gaze just as he closes in. 

 

“ _ Will _ ...” he warns— not one for pleading, even in this circumstance. Not even as his heart beats so fast and thunderous in his chest that he, the apex predator, can feel his ribs straining with the unbearable pressure of fear.

 

Sweating and shaking, Hannibal stumbles to his feet, keeping his good hand away from Will and near his thigh, as long and agile fingers flick off the syringe cap. Tracking Will with narrowed gaze, he steadies his breath and squares his shoulders over a widened stance, knees bent to ground him— ready to lunge. 

 

In a flash of pale, bloodied, and surprisingly powerful limbs, Will is sent colliding into him. 

 

The struggle that ensues is fierce— a blur of white and red, each man perfectly able to anticipate the other’s next move, just as they had always been so capable of doing. Hand to fist, thigh to foot, palm to snapping jaws, they dance on and on in a tangle of violence. Skin smacks into bone and grunts are swallowed down by groans, until Hannibal finally concedes and shoves his butchered arm into Will’s mouth. A furious snap as teeth dig in, Will claws towards the other’s chest in a frenzy through the bite and, whilst the wildling is distracted, a hefty dose of tranquilizer is pumped into the snarling man’s thigh. 

 

But it’s a second too late. 

 

Hannibal sinks underneath him, exhaustion finally toppling him over as Will pinned him and tore his wound anew. With gnashing teeth and clawing hands, Will draws the first ever bloodcurdling scream from the cannibal— screaming is all he could do just to stop himself from passing out.

 

“Will,” he murmurs again between thick and painful swallows, appealing to any sense of the man that may still be in there, as the raging beast of a man mounts and ravages him with the feral need to kill. The man that was once within the animal he sees now is gone. The creature that wears Will’s face now is something Hannibal doesn’t recognize.

 

As blunt teeth hit bone, Hannibal’s vision blurs black and his grip falls away— but it’s then, finally, that the boy’s lean limbs start to fail him. Will passes out, storm-blue eyes gazing up at Hannibal with knit brow and bloodied lips, a silent question perched just there:  _ Why? _ The older man catches him as Will collapses and falls limp, cradling him in his arms as Hannibal gently lowers him completely to the floor, a pool of blood sloshing out beneath them. But even he isn’t even entirely sure  _ why _ . He isn’t even sure Will,  _ knows  _ language enough to hear an answer at all.

 

Hannibal wraps Will in a blanket while he sleeps. He then washes, disinfects, and stitches his own arm with careful and tired motions, all whilst keeping an eye on Will, just incase the one tranquilizer wouldn’t be enough. Once his arm is bandaged, he is able to focus all his attention and care on Will.

 

Kneeling down beside the unconscious man, he leans in and inhales, long and sharp across his shoulder and neck to pull in the scent of him. As a thousand memories and dreams crashed in on him with pounding waves of heaving emotion, Hannibal’s chest caves, the wind knocked out of him and he only just manages to catch himself from falling with his one good arm. How? How could it be that the world had taken Will Graham from him so suddenly, only to then thrust the man back into his life just as suddenly and without any explanation? There are no answers here, only more questions than he’d had to begin with. The emotional plunge brings Hannibal even closer to Will’s now serene, but ragged face and he can tell by scent, alone, that this is most definitely Will; only more wild. There was an animal muskiness to his scent that had never been there before, but the musk only works to accentuate everything he had ever loved and it sends a shiver down the cannibal’s spine. A fearful thrill— how thoroughly  _ strange _ . 

 

His hand simply hovers at first, almost afraid to break the spell, but eventually the cannibal brushes a shaky hand down Will’s cheek and jaw to cradle the touch against the other’s flesh. His skin is cold, rough, and marked by bloody dirt; the stubble is sharp against the bed of his palm. 

 

“My boy... what have they done to you?”

 

Still unsure whether or not this is all an exceptionally vivid dream, Hannibal has no actual time to contemplate, working then to apply pressure to the site of the wound, withdraw the knife, and stem the flow of blood. Deft hands move with surgical precision, both adrenaline and care urging on steady hands. Although out cold, Will’s body still lurches with pain as he cleans out the gaping hole and stitches together each layer of ruined flesh— raw and angry muscle exposed to the harsh sting of air. Once he had washed the wound and his hands a second time, he wraps Will’s shoulder in heavy bandaging to keep the pressure on. All the gore continues to confirm the reality that this, indeed,  _ is _ Will Graham but certainly not the Will Graham he had once known.

 

By the end of the procedure, Hannibal is dripping with sweat, shirt soaked through, droplets falling onto Will’s naked chest with the regularity of a ticking heart beat. Pain squeezes every ounce of verve out of the cannibal. 

 

Using his good arm, he drags over his medical bag and gives Will some more pain relief, antibiotics, and extra sedatives all before injecting his own arm with a local anaesthetic. Whilst Will is still sleeping and, with all of the strength he can possibly muster, he manages to drag him to the Master Bedroom and roll him into bed, grunting and panting with the exertion. Will’s body is toned with heavy muscle, long limbs and still just as tall as he’d been before— none-to-easy to lift when Hannibal is already worn-down by his own wounds.  

 

After he had dressed Will in some pajamas, admittedly too big on his frame, Hannibal tucks the blankets high around him, no will or inclination to worry about stained bedsheets at this stage, he is solely focused on keeping Will  _ alive _ and  _ here. _

 

The room is lit by one, low-hanging amber light, casting a dreamlike hue and Hannibal stands, watching over Will—  _ his _ Will Graham as he sleeps. The cannibal fills the room with a looming and protective presence that  _ dares _ the world to threaten this new, albeit surreal, reality. Dark curls, familiar, yet feral features, and soft, heart-shaped lips glow with a warmth that unfurled across the room with long caressing fingers that petted at Hannibal’s cracked and bleeding heart; light beckoning it to beat with some kind of love again, but the withered muscle is simply bound too tightly with grief to give over to joy just yet. 

 

Unable to trust in this moment— he could just as easily wake from this and find it to be a dream. 

 

Hannibal isn’t quite sure how long he stands there, just watching his boy breathe; studying the gentle rise and fall of his chest and the shifting the blankets as he tossed and turned. He tries to piece together the events of the night, but the only consistent answer is insanity by way of grief, brought on by  _ very  _ peculiar circumstance. However, the image of the mauling beast on top of him, ripping into him like  _ meat _ is all-too-real to be ignored, but not because he fears dying— no, rather because he fears being torn from Will’s side again.

 

A hand-cuff clicks into place with a neat slide of metal, and Will’s slim wrist is secured neatly, just above his head to the bed-frame, before Hannibal strokes the tips of his fingers down the inside of the other’s arm, tracing the fine blue veins there, before crossing to the other side of the bed. The temptation to stroke down the boy’s smooth flesh, and to feel that he is  _ indeed _ real at every turn, is far too strong to maintain his usual professional and respectful boundaries. He slides the cold metal over Will’s opposite ankle and locks it into place, pinning his boy to the bed with enough leeway to be comfortable, but he is most certainly  _ trapped  _ in the killer’s care. 

 

Will had slipped through his fingers once— Hannibal isn’t taking any chances now. Plus, Will needs to heal and, if he were to run off into the forest in this state, he would surely perish. Once again, his large palm takes Will’s narrow ankle in hand as he grazes the pad of his thumb over fine bones and dips of flesh, parting the dusting of coarse hair there. 

 

It is with great effort that Hannibal is able to withdraw his hand; confusion and shock are winning the battle over consciousness. Hannibal turns and pulls up a chair, settling in to watch over Will throughout the night. 

 

He spends the hours refreshing the ghostly-blue and very faded walls of his memory palace with all the little motions that make up Will Graham. The way his jaw clenches and the small huffs of breath— the fluttering of thick eyelashes and the strained bob of his adam’s apple. Yes, underneath all that unkempt animality was  _ his _ Will… but  _ how? _

 

One, and then two elbows lean forward onto the side of the bed, the mattress sinking under Hannibal’s weight as large shoulders curve in and the vast planes of his back sag downward with exhaustion.  _ He should change, shower, dress, eat— drink something at the very least…  _ but he cannot bear to step away from his boy’s side.  _ Just incase. _  Soaked with blood and sweat, the bulk of his body shivers with cold as he steadily sinks downward, falling asleep with his head leaned against the warmth of Will’s thigh and his hand firmly clasped in the other’s, but not before a low, murmured admission rolls off Hannibal’s tongue and curls around the boy.

  
“I have missed you… for a thousand years, it seems.”


	2. Chapter 2

Will is out cold, through the night. He sleeps with mild interruptions of tossing and turning that’s only hampered by the restraints that keep him bound to the bed. All the while, Hannibal remains where he had drifted, the side of his face rested against the other man’s thigh as he leans forward from the chair he’s seated in. 

Regardless of the ache that the older man will surely feel as punishment for dozing in such an uncomfortable position, it is the most peaceful sleep he’s gotten in what seems like forever.

The drugs keep Will down for quite some time, right up until they don’t anymore.

The first rays of run peak in through the windows. Low and steady growls crawl their way up from his throat, until they make way for heated snarls, eyes flying open and a look of confusion crossing over Will’s face. It’s clear that he doesn’t recognize where he is - the sudden noise and the struggle against his restraints being enough to wrench Hannibal from his slumber as well. The older man draws away just in time as the brunet’s spine arches off the bed and his limbs wrench violently in an attempt to free himself.   
  
It’s a noisy and feral struggle as Will’s legs kick out and his free hand comes up to clamp over the chain that cuffs his other arm above his head. The metal groans and clangs under the strain of it all, adrenaline kicking in and sending him into a frenzy, until both cuffs snap under the pull. 

Hannibal jumps back, knocking his chair over. He backs away slowly, eyes scanning for some kind of weapon as to be sure he is armed while Will thrashes and goes into a fit of fury.

Disheveled blankets and pillows fall to the floor as the fitted sheet lifts away from the mattress, while Will stumbles over his own legs to topple over the edge and to the floor, a loud grunt forced from his lungs. 

Angry, cornered, and unsure of his surroundings— Will is afraid and fear is a very dangerous thing for a very dangerous animal.

The cuffs that hang from one wrist and the opposite ankle look like thick, gunmetal bracelets. They clink loudly when he moves as he shakes them in irritation, only making the racket worse. Will covers his ears to hide from the sound and tries to stand, but crumbles with a yelp. He trips over himself as pain sears through him like fire, before trembling hands reach for his side and tentatively brush over where Hannibal had stitched and bandaged Will’s wound the night before. 

It doesn’t make sense— for all the life of him, Hannibal doesn’t understand why _ his  _ Will, ultimately, does not seem to understand. 

Confusion is written over the brunet’s face as he tries to pry shirt and pants from his body, arms and legs growing tangled in his effort. The struggle with it is enough to elicit another animal snarl from Will as he tries to rid himself of the clothing altogether. 

It seems as though the clothes, as much as the chains, are a prison to this wild version of Hannibal’s boy— his heart,  _ his everything _ .

As Will struggles and strips himself back down to nothing, Hannibal edges his way around the room - a plan formulating. It’s a plan that wouldn’t involve harming Will any further, however, that is not to say Hannibal wouldn’t take offensive action, if necessary. But he knows that a wild animal - which is what Will seems to be at present - will only suffer so many wounds, before all trust is destroyed. So, for the time being, Hannibal keeps his blade hidden.

“Will.” 

The sound draws Will’s attention, but his face is blank with confusion, right up until his gaze drops to the bandage on Hannibal’s arm. What was white and pristine only hours ago, is now the same blood-red as the cannibal’s eyes. 

Will’s soft, pink lips pull back into a sneer, exposing parted teeth and a wet tongue to accompany his sudden wave of hunger. 

While the soft slivers of dawn light cast the whole scene in pastel hues, time hangs on hooks of terror. Each man draws in deeper breaths— one preparing to lunge, while the other prepares to duck.

Hannibal spins on his heel first and long legs power him quickly down the hall, socks sliding around tight corners. Despite stiff joints and very little sleep, he still finds spark enough to stay ahead of Will, but the heavy pounding of the younger man’s bare feet against the floor is never far behind. His ripping snarls and panting breaths draw ever-closer over the cannibal’s shoulder.

Hannibal dare not spare a look backwards as he spins around the balustrade of the staircase. He takes the steps three at a time - so elegant are his lunges that he seems to glide around the downward spiral and into the darkness below almost soundlessly. 

Will, however, seems to struggle with the steps. The clatter of stumbling and whining follows as as he stumbles over them - but only at first. He takes a wild leap at the last few and reaches for Hannibal’s collar, sending both men to topple over with a pained groan, shock crossing either of their expressions. 

Will’s hands grab for Hannibal’s limbs, clamping over his arms as Hannibal is hauled back and the brunet leans over him, all gnashing teeth and wild, dark curls. Hannibal’s foot slams against Will’s side, hitting his mark just as aimed to send blood welling and staining Hannibal’s sock as Will reels back, hand pressed over his wound with face contorted and eyes full of pained tears. 

Hannibal pays no heed. He’s on his feet in seconds, sprinting down the cavernous hall of his basement that would, perhaps, be better described as a dungeon. 

The walls are blue-stone, the various rooms divided by walls of glass. There are wine collections, wall-to-wall fridges, a workroom full of benches and saws and other tools of benign destruction, and finally, a hidden room with a well that drops down to the never-never. 

Hannibal shoulders his way through the nearest door, the bulletproof glass giving way with a shucking sound and a brittle bang behind. Quick hands yank open a fridge and pull out a neat, paper package, before he keeps running, throwing a look behind himself to see Will giving chase once again. 

Will is certainly confused by the glass at first, but he quickly reverts to using brute strength to push through, a bare foot leaving a muggy footprint on the glass in his wake. 

Hannibal only has a moment to glance over his shoulder upon the stain, eyes mirroring disdain as he fishes through his pocket to dig out his keys and open the door to the hidden room.

It screeches open, stale air rushing out as both men spill into the room with a bone-rattling thud. Will had launched himself at Hannibal’s back, legs and arms wrapping around his broad frame - teeth only narrowly missing the cannibal’s neck as Hannibal yanks just out of bite’s reach with a grunt. Once past the threshold, they are a tangle of bloodied arms and legs, sprawled against the stone floor as each of them release respective groans and grunts of pain.

Will is first to move, then, pinning Hannibal with his weight. 

Neither can see well - the hidden room being not much more than a blacked-out cell. Stone walls are lined with chains— no windows, a steel door, and there is a screwed-down cover hiding the entrance to the well in which Hannibal has had no use for. No one has been in here for years, but the atmosphere is stained with the scent of death regardless and ghosts seem to linger in every corner, dangling without feet or will to move them forward from this place. 

The animal in Will can sense the echo of dead things here, which only seems to send him into a greater fury. In a vibrant display of life, he uses teeth and clawed hands to rip his shirt off entirely from where it hangs over one arm. A pained whine slips over his lips as his fingers graze his bandaged wound.

Hannibal is careful to lay very still as Will thrashes above him, freezing both lungs and muscles as Will slows his movements and lowers himself down over Hannibal in a threatening display of dominance. It appears that Will is scenting him, nose dragging up the side of Hannibal’s neck as sharp inhales sound through flared nostrils. The action draws a violent shiver from the cannibal, who closes his eyes and winces in answer. He can feel Will’s lips curl to form into a near-grin as the younger man then presses his mouth against Hannibal’s jaw. 

Will is amused at having drawn fear from the older man. He can smell it on him.

Hannibal is quick to turn away as rage creeps in through his veins— a rage that would be ill-spent against this wild thing that takes the place of the Will he had once known. It appears as though their games would continue, no matter the context. 

The younger man moves fast to straddle Hannibal, before reaching around to grab a hold of his arms. Will is quick and Hannibal’s only advantage here is strength, but even  _ that _ is a near-even match between them now. Will had filled out and bulked up since Hannibal had last seen him. 

“ _ No _ .” Hannibal snaps back suddenly as he gropes around for the package that he had lost during their struggle.

Will flattens himself against the older man to stop him from moving, teeth perched directly over his throat, but Hannibal’s hand manages to snap over the package just in time. Fingers dig in to split the paper and plastic apart, revealing a fresh and bloody slab of meat. He drags it back and shoves it against Will’s cheek, hoping that the younger man would take a bite of the bloody mess and  _ not _ the man beneath.

And Will takes the bait, teeth snapping down into the offered meat as both his hands raise to hold it against his mouth. Blunt teeth tear and shred the flesh and Hannibal takes the distraction as his chance to move. 

He lifts his thigh and presses down against the floor, entirely ready to roll Will off, but the younger man snarls down at him immediately, sensing the motion, and then begins to rut his hips down against Hannibal in yet another display of dominance. 

Hannibal’s arms raise slowly, palms turned up in a sign of surrender as he stops moving. He is torn between feeling horrified and diabolically aroused as he watches this feral version of Will smear his face with blood and flesh whilst grinding himself down against him. For a brief second, Hannibal surrenders to the sensation and lets slip a groan when he feels himself grow just as hard as Will is. But regardless of what biology might tell him, he also knows that this is terribly  _ wrong _ and it’s certainly not how he had ever imagined their first physical encounter of this nature to be. 

_ But, God, if it doesn’t feel disgustingly good. _

Hannibal’s mind races as he looks towards the door, before gazing back to Will. He would be finished with the meat soon and then would likely turn all of his attention back to the man beneath himself. Hannibal’s only option is to go for the wound - injuring his boy more - but it would be better than any other option. However, anytime Hannibal makes even the smallest motion to move, Will snarls and pins him down further, muscle and limbs reacting immediately. 

As the friction between them continues, the older man cannot help his panting now, head tilted down, lips parted and canines showing as he glares up towards Will.

What had started as a means to retain some sense of power, heats into something more. Will’s attention rounds to focus fully on Hannibal as both men grow harder in the space between them, erections brushing and breath panting out warm against one another’s flesh. Something in Will seems to soften - if only enough to keep him from wanting to tear out Hannibal’s jugular - and instead, that aggression is funneled out through something completely  _ different _ .

A low, grumbling whine hums behind Will’s bloodied mouth as he dips down from where he hovers over Hannibal, and begins to drag his nose up the side of the older man’s throat - nostrils flaring as Will noisily scents him once again and huffs out soft sighs in answer.

Something deep within Will recognizes the scent— recognizes something familiar.

Regardless of what it is, it causes his rutting to pick up in both force and speed as a strangled moan of a sound tumbles from Will’s parted mouth and he drags the flat, wet bed of his tongue over Hannibal’s neck, leaving behind a muted red stripe of a stain against the flesh.

No, this isn’t entirely about Will asserting his dominance over Hannibal anymore - though surely, that remains to play a part in all that they do. However, now it’s the thick and musky smell of arousal that clouds the air around them and overpowers anything else, even when Hannibal manages to put up a bit of a struggle in an attempt to cut things off, before they can escalate further.

Heel of his shoe catching against the ground and digging there to try and lift his hip from the floor, Hannibal moves smooth and swift in his attempt to roll them both over, or at least throw Will off of him, but the man on top senses even the smallest tense of Hannibal’s muscles and answers with a thunderous snarl in warning. 

Will has hands planted onto the floor now, one on either side of Hannibal to leave carmine palm-prints against the cold surface as Will grinds himself down and angles his knee to make quick work of spreading Hannibal’s legs entirely, placing himself between. 

“Ah— ngh…” Will’s voice is aching, graveled, and heated in his throat.

“Will.  _ No _ .” 

Hannibal’s voice, however, is a stern growl of his own when his own hands come to settle on the bows of Will’s bare shoulders, attempting to push him off. It feels undeniably good - almost too good to put a stop to it, but the more logical part of Hannibal’s brain continues to insist that it isn’t right. Will isn’t in his right mind— this isn’t Will at all and this isn’t how any of this was supposed to happen. 

Instead of being able to create some distance, Hannibal is met with another, low and angry sound tearing up from the chasm of Will’s mouth, before teeth latch against the side of Hannibal’s throat and hands come up to slam the cannibal’s wrists down to the floor below. 

The word, ‘ _ no _ ’, does not seem to be lost on Will. In fact, it appears to elicit a rather heated and demanding reaction. He does not want to be told no. He wants to be in charge.

Hips angle themselves forward sharply as Will ruts down against the juncture between Hannibal’s thigh and crotch, the hard and straining swell of their cocks aligned side-to-side as Will grinds against the inside of the older man’s hip. The brunet is entirely bare now, save for any bandages that Hannibal had applied the previous night and save for the cuffs that jingle over one of Will’s wrists and the opposite ankle. They drag with a sharp, metal sound over the hard surface of the floor whenever the younger man moves.

Hannibal’s gaze falls, peering down into what little space there is between them in order to catch a glimpse. Will’s cock is flushed and shiny with the precum that beads in droplets on the tip, leaving behind a small wet spot against the front of Hannibal’s pants. Hannibal closes his eyes as a hot shudder rolls through him and a needy moan is drawn up, the sound falling in hitched waves as Will rocks against him. Will’s swollen cock is an erotic sight and a sight that the cannibal had previously imagined in more than a few separate ways before now. But this is different.

It’s too different. 

It’s just not the same.

And, while he can’t help the arousal that he feels - spurred on by Will’s erection and the motion of hips being steadily pressed down into his own - Hannibal knows that this isn’t the way he’d ever intended for this to happen between them. And Hannibal also knows that the Will Graham he’d once known would be nothing short of horrified right now.

But for the moment, with teeth clamped over his neck and arms pinned down, there is little Hannibal can do to stop it. He closes his eyes and struggles to focus on holding himself back from cumming, but as he paces both his breathing and his heart rate, Will becomes enraged at the act of passive resistance. 

A quick, sharp, clawed hand strikes the side of Hannibal’s face, before Will has him pinned completely once again. Hannibal hisses as he feels welts of blood blooming hot along his cheek— in any other situation, Will’s head would be twisted clear off his neck for such an act, but this is far from any other situation.

Although, there is something important in the way the brunet lashes out. Will’s desire for Hannibal to share in this moment of pleasure - as opposed to run from it - is a hopeful sign that there is, indeed, something more human within Will, than just the crazed thing that shows on the surface. Simply knowing that Will wants the cannibal to bare witness to this intimate moment brings Hannibal his first, true moment of joy upon seeing Will alive again. However, it’s quickly snatched away as Will bites down onto the older man’ neck harder, drawing blood as one hand is brought down to start ripping at Hannibal’s pants. 

As charge of urgency sparks itself to life in Hannibal’s chest as Will grows more frustrated above him, letting out whining and growling noises as he struggles to strip the cannibal down to nothing. Distracted, Will sits up, letting Hannibal’s hands free as he moves to tear at the man’s belt and zipper. Hannibal cannot help the groan he sounds in answer, spine arching as Will’s hands brush over his cock and send a spike of pleasure right through to the base of Hannibal’s spine, making it impossible to stay still.  

For a second, their eyes lock, lust-blown blue on amber that’s equally as lust-blown. Will pulls a curved and dark sort of smile in knowing that he is drawing a reaction out of the man beneath— Will has toppled the giant. 

But his pride is his downfall.

As Hannibal had arched himself from the floor, he had also slipped his hand into his pocket and grabbed the blade tucked away there. In a blast of movement, Hannibal headbutts Will’s injured shoulder, knocking him back, before throwing himself at the boy and landing the blade into his thigh. Hannibal drags it down and Will howls out in a lilting sound of hurt. 

But Hannibal has no time to pay heed to the boy’s pain. He scrambles to his feet and lunges for the chains that hang from the opposite wall. Leaning down, he snatches a handful of Will’s hair and drags him stumbling back, adrenaline giving Hannibal all the power he needs to haul this animal of a man around. Will’s teeth snap at him, but Hannibal dances around in quick and agile movements to evade any more bites, before he locks one of Will’s wrists to the wall. 

The iron cuff falls into place with a small ‘ _ clink _ ’ and Hannibal wrestles to slide the bolt in and lock it. Without looking back, Hannibal rolls his shoulder against the wall to push himself off and slowly make his way upstairs, bumping into walls and doors as he goes. He watches with a hopeless kind of woe as he leaves a trail of blood and grime along the pristine walls along the way. 

He would have to clean that up when his reserves had returned.

As he grabs his medical bag, Hannibal closes his eyes with a strained sigh, Will’s howling echoing all the way up from the belly of the cannibal’s home. It is a sound that pains him like nothing else. His eyes suddenly fly open in a flash of shock and dread when he realizes that Will might very well be attempting to remove the blade in his thigh on his own. 

Using a stretch of energy that he didn't know he’d had, Hannibal uses his long and powerful legs to bolt back downstairs. He comes to  skidding halt at the door to Will’s chamber, frozen mid-step by the arresting, albeit dark, vision of Will, naked and straining against the chains.

Hannibal’s chest heaves as he draws in rapid and deep breaths both from running and from watching Will’s lean and muscular form writhe against the chains. The boy’s cock is still painfully hard from where it curves up against his belly, despite the blade that remains lodged in his thigh. Hannibal clutches the medical kit in one hand as he edges into the room and simply...  _ watches. _

And Will watches right  back . 

There is a moment of silence, before he turns and rolls, looking towards nothing but the older man as Will starts to stroke himself, whining and rocking his hips up against his fist, tugging at the chain. A whisper of a smirk paints itself across Will’s soft, pink lips in something akin to a challenge. A plea for Hannibal to come closer.

Hannibal simply chuckles, recognizing that the boy is attempting to lure him closer with the display of absolute wanton neediness.  _ Oh yes _ , Will is most definitely still in there, somewhere. 

That said, Hannibal does not stop watching, just as Will does not stop stroking. The bulbous head is so achingly hard that it shines nearly purple in color. Hannibal prowls the room, never taking his eyes off Will’s curled fist, or the way it works over Will’s perfect and weeping shaft. With every step Hannibal takes, Will opens his legs just the slightest bit further— a small ‘ _ come hither _ ’ spoken only through lewd gesture.

As a sweeping flush stains Will’s chest and his balls tighten, his entire body spasms up quite suddenly and he yanks against the chain, mouth falling open with a little whimper, before it makes way for a loud moan. Will paints his own chest in streaks of white, writhing and twisting as he rides the waves of his pleasure, climax washing heavily over him.

Hannibal merely observes in awed and debauched fascination. 

Although his own pants strain with the line of his own arousal, and although his own lips part to draw in short breaths over his lax tongue, Hannibal makes no move to pleasure himself in the wake of Will’s orgasm.

Once Will has settled with his head dropped to nearly rest chin against his chest and his body nearly going limp, Hannibal pounces, driving another tranquilizer deep into his arm, before stumbling back and out of the way once again. Slowly and reluctantly, the boy tumbles into sleep and Hannibal is able to withdraw the blade from Will’s leg, so as to clean and dress the wounds, before washing Will down.

All thoughts of sex and depravity are removed from this moment as Hannibal focuses solely on his care.

He manages to find some more loose fitting-clothes, but figures they will soon be torn to shreds anyway, so he leaves a pile of blankets for Will to make a bed, or a nest instead - whichever is the more appropriate term. Hannibal removes the redundant handcuffs that hang previously from Will having been cuffed upstairs, to the bed, before Hannibal then cuffs Will’s other ankle to the wall instead. 

This way, Will has one free hand to reach the food and water that is left, laid out for him.

At the end of it all, Hannibal is too exhausted to clean up the house—  _ that _ will have to come later. He manages a quick shower and a chance to redress his own wounds, before collapsing upstairs, into his bed, but he isn’t granted the ease of a quick slumber. Rather, when the older man’s head hits the pillow, all he can smell is Will there. 

Hannibal rolls into his bedding with a low, silent moan as images of his feral Will rutting above him almost immediately make him hard again. He thrusts down a few times against the mattress, but keeps a firm hold on his cock to stop himself from coming, all before Hannibal stops touching himself entirely. 

This isn’t right - not  _ yet _ , anyway - but he’s determined to make it right again.

  
Hannibal is determined to continue to find  _ Will _ within the wild that has taken hold of him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Sorry for the gap between updates on this one! The next chapter is already mapped out and in the works now, so there won't be such a long wait for the next one - everything starts to pick up a bit from there.**   
>  **Enjoy!**

Hannibal is torn from sleep by the muffled sound of yelling. 

It rises up from the bowels of the house and paints itself as a faint echo across all of its walls. They’re spaced apart and by the time the cannibal lifts himself from the bed with a pained groan, the sounds begins to rise up into a whine.

The strained noises, however, don’t reflect any emotion of fear or pain— Hannibal figures it to be nothing more than impatience now, at this point. 

As he dresses himself, before gathering food and the medical supplies needed, he wonders how long Will has been awake, down in the basement. Hannibal must have slept in.

Before heading downstairs, he makes a final stop in the bathroom, taking a moment to gaze at his own pallid reflection in the mirror, before long fingers hook under the reflective surface and open the cupboard behind. Hannibal brushes over the bottle with a sad kind of smile. The glass is frosted and smooth, except where the design of a boat is etched in and, even before he opens it, he can smell the sharp, overbearing scent. Really, it’s more alcohol than it is aftershave at this stage, but the cannibal braves the obscene odor and dabs it under his jaw and over his wrists regardless.

He’d bought the bottle after having first felt Will’s absence and Hannibal had made a habit out of wearing it from time to time— sometimes even just opening the bottle and allowing his nostrils to flare over the lip of it. Mostly, Hannibal had just wanted to be reminded of the familiar smell that had followed anytime Will had ever entered a room.

Nothing but a distant memory. 

Until now. Until Will had wandered back into Hannibal’s life, without warning and entirely different than before. 

This new version of Will doesn’t smell the same. Doesn’t act, speak, or think quite the same either.

After brushing his teeth, Hannibal heads down the stairs, through rooms and hallways, taking his time to make his way to the basement. All the while, he’s careful to mind all his injuries and the random stabs of pain as he goes. When one of the stairs leading down to the basement creaks under the weight of his step, the whining from the far room ends abruptly. 

It’s almost comical, Hannibal muses to himself, how quickly Will goes quiet once he knows he has the other’s attention. The silence is deafening now that his ears had gotten used to the hellish sounds of complaint - the cannibal cannot help the smirk that tugs at the side of his mouth upon rounding the corner to stand in the threshold of the room he’d left his boy chained in.

Nude and twisted amongst a mess of sheets, Will lies with his back against the floor and pelvis angled to keep one leg kicked up and resting against the wall. It’s clear that he’s been struggling against his restraints for a while now, only to resort to sulking in his frustration and causing as much noise as humanly possible.

When he hears Hannibal step into the doorway, Will turns his head against the floor from where he lays to stare up towards the other man from upside-down, dark hair tousled and his expression the complete picture of petulance.

“You have my full attention now, Will. Is that what you had hoped to achieve?”

In answer, a low and quiet growl rolls within the chasm of Will’s throat, but it’s not a threatening sound. If anything, he merely appears annoyed - perhaps even embarrassed with himself. Especially when he turns his head against the sheets once again to stare, instead, towards the wall with knitted brows and a frown.

It’s surprising that Will doesn’t immediately react with violence upon seeing Hannibal. The Doctor figures it’s probably due to that not having worked so well for Will thus far.

As Hannibal moves to set the supplies down, Will’s head turns just enough to keep his peripherals on the cannibal.

In slow, telegraphed, and precise movements, Hannibal makes his way closer, paying no heed to the fact he is now within biting distance. Rather, Hannibal lowers himself down, and waits. 

Scowling and growling and fretting, Will turns towards him and, in a sudden flash of limbs, teeth come to snap within inches of the cannibal’s face. Hannibal barely blinks - just-barely flinching in response to this outburst. 

“Are you quite done, William?” 

A barrage of feral sounds bounce off the walls as teeth gnash near Hannibal’s jaw, until the noises slowly start to die in Will’s throat and teeth are sheathed away once again by perfect cupid’s-bow lips. Will settles to nose along the cannibal’s shoulder with low and curious huffs.

A small, hitched sound is given in the hollow of Will’s throat when a scent recalls something fleeting to memory— something confusing and something long since forgotten. It’s a scent from another lifetime, or so it feels. From some other world, scattered and dashed across the endless skies of possibilities, and lost amongst the various stars that had lost their light some time ago.

Without truly knowing why, Will feels a sharp, empty ache in the very pit of his chest.

“... A—ftershave.” The word is husky, dry, and broken when Will manages to say it - distant, like he were tasting the sound of it on his tongue, before speaking. It’s almost as though he hasn’t spoken at all in years. 

Maybe he hasn’t. 

When Hannibal turns to look, Will is already rocking back onto his heels to create a distance between them, his face pinched with concentration as he wavers, a strangled whine in his throat. 

But Hannibal is already utterly satisfied with the result, no matter the pain it might have caused. The olfactory sense is the oldest and the most embedded with memory.

“Quite right. The same you kept getting for Christmas,” Hannibal answers simply.  

He rolls his shoulder away and places a hand over his knee, making motions to stand, but a rough hand is quick to catch his shirt and drag him back down, thrown off-balance.

“Ship... on the bottle,” Will growls out as he pushes Hannibal to the ground, who gives a slight hiss when his shoulder blades connect with the floor.

Mounting Hannibal’s chest with legs straddled on either side of him, when Will’s knee comes to rest against the cannibal’s wounded forearm, it causes him to groan out in pain, behind clenched teeth. It’s much to Hannibal’s surprise, however - and seemingly Will’s own as well - when he immediately reacts and shifts the aforementioned knee to allow Hannibal the room to move his arm out of the way. 

A beat and a pause is given, before Hannibal pants out a genuine, “Thank you,” but still makes no move to actually push Will off.

With palms pressed down into Hannibal’s shoulders, Will continues by flexing his thighs and slowly rutting over the cannibal’s midsection, leaning down to sniff along Hannibal’s jaw. In the effort to leave behind some scant evidence of his own scent, Will drags the side of his own stubbled face over the other man’s, before nosing down Hannibal’s neck and chest.  

It isn’t an action meant to be sexual and it isn’t something rushed, but rather a lead-up to marking. However, that doesn’t mean Will isn’t hard. The friction and the assertion of dominance itself has him half-hard between his legs and flushed along the edges of his body.   
  
And Hannibal allows for this without interruption. 

Although Hannibal finds himself slowly growing used to Will’s naked and aroused form, to say that he doesn’t indulge himself in observing would be a lie. He reaches up and gently threads his hand through messy curls, stroking over the top of Will’s head to sweep behind and leave fingers cradled just at the back of his neck. At the touch, Will growls lowly and snarls out in a halfhearted protest, lips curling to reveal pearly teeth once again, but he continues on as he is. 

When he’s finally satisfied with his effort in scent-marking the larger man, Will is left heaving and panting over-top of Hannibal, gazing down towards him with face flushed. 

By this point,  _ both _ men are hard from the friction. 

“Finished?” Hannibal slips his hand away from dark and mussed hair, but Will promptly noses into that too, eyes falling shut and face fitting comfortably into the cannibal’s palm. 

Hannibal takes every advantage to stroke over and press into the hard contours of Will’s face. As he pets over Will’s features, the disheveled man preening tentatively under the touch, Hannibal’s voice breaks the silence once again.

“I will to need to redress your wound.” Hannibal nods towards Will’s bandage, before peering down at his own, now leaking fresh blood.

The second Will catches sight of fresh crimson, he lunges, but however fast he is, Hannibal is faster. He’s able to kick a knee up and yank Will by the nape of his neck - just enough to topple him off to the side so that the larger man then has room to roll away, out of reach. The sudden rush of motion is over in a second, leaving both men shocked and robbed of breath. 

Hannibal slowly finds center and makes his way over to the medical supplies. Leaning his back against the wall, he slides down to sit on the floor with one knee up and the other leg outstretched. Hannibal is fully aware of Will’s gaze, chasing every one of his movements. 

“I am going to dress my wound first, so you can see what I’ll need to do with yours. Do you understand?” Hannibal arches a brow in the other’s direction.

Will  _ does _ seem to understand. His eyes flicker up from where they watch Hannibal’s hands to lock with the man’s gaze - a second of recognition, but still clouded with an undeniable unease. Doubt. Will may have softened and perhaps there had been some sort of remembrance upon catching the smell of his old aftershave, but there is still a large level of mistrust.

No matter— Hannibal will see to it that he does away with that, over time.

However long it takes.

A hoarse, irritated grumble is given and Will relaxes, seating himself among the mess of sheets that he’d slept on. He cranes his jaw and tilts his head to let it come to rest against the wall with a dull ‘ _ thud _ ,’ eyes training down to fixate on what Hannibal does with his hands.

And so, taking that as all the answer he needs, Hannibal goes to work. Skilled fingers pull away old gauze and set it aside, near the first aid kit, before he reaches for new gauze to replace it. 

Once Hannibal’s wound and the fresh blood is welcomed by the open air, Will sounds a deep inhale from off to the side - a sound that tapers off into another low growl as all his muscles seem to tighten under taut skin in preparation to lunge. 

It’s a notion that is cut off by a sharp ‘ _ tsk _ ’, Hannibal’s tongue pressed to the back of his teeth as he reapplies a bandage to his wound and doesn’t give Will so much as a glance. Dismissive and authoritative, sure, but it works. Will goes quiet from there on out and lets Hannibal finish, before the attention is shifted.

“You will need to stay still and allow me to do this,” Hannibal tests. “Alright, Will?”

For a moment, defiance crosses over Will’s features. He looks as though he might protest and cause more trouble, but it only lasts for a second, before his face falls and he silently concedes. Brows that were once knit into a furrow of frustration, now only worry into an expression of confusion as he moves to lean his back against the cold surface of the wall, weary eyes watching Hannibal approach.

Hannibal’s stance lowers the closer he gets, slow and precise as always. He sets the medical supplies aside for now and, rather than reaching straight for the wound, he offers Will his hand again first - which, in reality, must smell just as much like Will as it does Hannibal at this point. In the continued wordless conversation, Will nods softly to encourage Hannibal into grazing knuckles down the slope of his cheek, smoothing the touch back to clasp a strong hand over the back of his head. Hannibal cradles Will’s skull just as he had done so many times before, keeping them at close proximity. 

Eyes still sharp, Hannibal takes a chance and leans in, turning his forehead against the other man’s while bringing his spare hand up to gently trace a line down the side of Will’s jaw. This touch only lingers for a moment as well, before dipping down the side of Will’s neck and over the slope his shoulder to where the injury lay, taped in messed bandages.

“This will hurt, but it will also help you. Stay still.” Hannibal squeezes the hand over the back of Will’s skull just the once, before relinquishing his hold and setting to work on the wound.

Hannibal is skilled enough in what he does that something he’d been trained to do well even with his eyes shut - that he is able to start peeling away the bandage whilst maintaining eye contact with Will. 

One strip of tape lifted away. A whine. Another strip. Another whine. 

When a sudden snap of teeth is given with a hissing growl, it sends Hannibal reeling back, barking his own sharp, ‘ _ tsk _ ’, but it’s with the full bandage in his grasp now. The shove away from Will had at least forced a quick removal. 

Lady luck walked in grace today.   
  
Hannibal licks his lips and nods to himself, checking the color of the bandage. Clear. Just blood on snow white cloth. His attention turns back to Will who now takes to contorting and twisting, jaw craned to bring his tongue to drag over where his stitches lay, bared to the open air.

Another sharp admonishment from the click of Hannibal’s tongue pulls Will up, but it's not given without a pinch of regret. The task of watching Will delve into a blood-soaked wound with the wet swipe of his tongue is, indeed, far from an unpleasant sight for the cannibal. However, the risk of infection is just too high. Surely, it would be irresponsible to allow...

Hannibal shifts closer again, the same pattern: slow and precise with a cautious arm outstretched. But rather than simply scent Hannibal this time, Will also turns and licks over the flesh just near where Hannibal’s own wound is wrapped in gauze. 

The gesture is enough to stay the cannibal, a low purr reverberating in his throat at the sensation— at the mere  _ idea _ of Will dragging an eager tongue through his blood. 

In a calculated risk, Hannibal quickly unfastens his own bandage and offers Will his arm again. Testing, he lifts it once, and then twice. Twice is all it takes for Will to snatch Hannibal’s forearm in eager hands and swipe a taste across the line of stitches there. He laps wet and tender strokes of his freshly-pink tongue across the crimson streaks of blood that just barely well in wake of each pass.

Hannibal breathes a sigh of relief and sags down beside Will, just watching his boy with awestruck gratitude. The beauty of the moment is without parallel, both in its poetry and in its gritty reality. 

The sensation of Will’s silk-wet tongue petting across the bow of his muscle draws up a warmth in the cannibal’s chest that radiates out through his skin, everything flushed and bright. His eyes lose focus only to refocus again and see the scene anew. Some kind of shift in perception takes place here - something that has yet to find words for itself:  _ retrouvaille _ . 

A sharp inhale flares the cannibal’s nostrils in response to the pleasant sting, followed by a fluttering purr in his throat. All else fades out.

Will’s vivid blue eyes flicker up as he licks another line over the array of stitches. He reads them like braille against his tongue, before a curious gaze shifts to dart back and forth between Hannibal and his own wound as well. 

Their own unspoken language continued. An invitation.

Insistence.

Hannibal noses forward, first down the line of Will’s jaw, and then over the side of his neck. Soft lips travel across his collarbone until the cannibal’s mouth finally closes over the ex-profiler’s wound. It’s an action that Hannibal could not deny Will in this moment— not when it’s silently asked of him so sincerely now, after having been apart for so long. Not when Hannibal, himself, can feel himself wanting this so vehemently. 

His tongue brushes along the bloated line of Will’s flesh that still struggles to heal, sweeping over carmine blood in tender motions - nothing greedy or hungry. It’s agile. Sensitive. It pulls forth a small sound of encouragement.

Hannibal’s eyes slowly fall shut as his hand smooths up behind the wing of Will’s shoulder blade and carefully holds him in place as the cannibal licks another wet pass over the stitches. The ferric taste and the sharp, copper smell leaves his head swimming and the purr that he exhales falls into something more akin to a possessive growl. 

_ This is mine _ . 

It’s a primal call that is reciprocated in earnest by Will as their bodies shift towards the heat of it, nearly entwining together as mouths work with the utmost adoration.

_ I will care for you. _

_ Be. Mine. _

It is something entirely feral— this action between them that can only be described as animal. This new version of Will that Hannibal has yet to understand completely, can still be understood in darkness. In the residual ferocity left behind that is still human and not beast.

And besides, there has always been plenty of  _ beast _ residing within Hannibal - enough to meet Will in the middle now.

Hannibal’s hand drifts up into Will’s hair, tugging at the loose curls there and, it’s then and only then that both men pull away from their bloodied delights to catch one another’s gazes. Mouths parted and breath hot, it fans over their flesh as they stare towards each other with eyes on fire. And Hannibal can see it in Will’s eyes now— some kind of recognition. Will wears the very same look he had lifetimes ago, when they had both stood at the edge of a cliff. That same look Will had worn when he had uttered such fateful words that night.

_ It’s beautiful. _

There is no hesitation. Not this time.

Hannibal closes the space immediately to press a kiss against Will’s lips, soft at first. It’s new and curious and Will only seems to stiffen for a split second, before understanding and tilting into it. The glance of bloodied lips soon turns frantic as the men seek to lick the taste of themselves clear of the other’s mouth, the blood and the passion flowing back and forth in equal measure. 

Another growl erupts from Will, before he’s on top of Hannibal in seconds. Rough hands closing over the round of his shoulders to push him back to the floor, Will’s weight shifts to cover Hannibal’s. The room is filled with the sound of chains dragging to follow the motion, straining as Will nearly stretches them to their limit.

Uneasy and ready to wrestle himself free if absolutely needed, Hannibal’s muscles stiffen and Will drags away from their kiss to lick down the line of his jaw, nosing over the side of the cannibal’s throat. Hannibal exhales a low and unmistakable sound of warning, hands reaching up to wind one back into Will’s hair, while the other rakes fingers down his side. It’s a sound that Will answers with another growl and a sharp huff, breath searing where it fans against Hannibal’s flesh.

They are teetering over a very fine and dangerous line. 

It would be far too easy for this to turn into another violent pissing-contest, should Will feel that Hannibal were challenging him.

And so, Hannibal concedes and allows Will this, remaining still as he explores. Rapid inhale-exhales are given as Will breathes in the cannibal’s scent, smelling down and over the line of his shoulder, before nosing at the collar of his shirt. A pink tongue makes reappearance to lap at where Hannibal’s chest can be seen, just above where his shirt is buttoned and coarse hair begins. 

The hitched sound that Hannibal makes now isn’t in warning— it isn’t in any sort of protest at all, actually.

Will is able sense that much. Nosing and mouthing over the fabric of Hannibal’s shirt, he continues downward, taking in the man’s scent and the way in which each muscle flutters beneath clothing. 

And Will has a destination - or so it would appear.

He finally comes to a stop once he’s low enough to run his nose over the thickening line of Hannibal’s cock behind the front of his pants. Another sharp inhale sounds into the silence and Will’s nostrils flare with it, before his lips part to close warm and wet over the side of the cannibal’s erection, mouthing it over his clothes. 

Immediately, instinct brings Hannibal to dig heels into the floor, hips rising once of their own volition, to meet the echo of friction. He can’t help it.

Deep down, somewhere, Hannibal knows he must put a stop to it, before things go too far. It’s not right— not yet, anyway. Yes, it  _ is _ Will, but there are still so many things about him now that are entirely…  _ not _ Will as well.

This is not how they were supposed to be.

A moan falls past Will’s mouth as he licks a wet, possessive stripe over where Hannibal’s cock strains behind his zipper, and it’s such a human sound that it shakes the cannibal to his very core.

“Will. I think that’s quite enough—” Hannibal begins, reaching down in an attempt to distract Will from his current fixation, but is quickly interrupted by a much more animal snarl and a swipe of Will’s hand in order to knock his away.

It’s finally when Hannibal feels the ghost of teeth grazing over the swell of his fabric-clad arousal, does he finally go to push Will off completely, ignoring the angry whine that’s given in protest. Hannibal pays the sound no heed and pulls himself up to stand, taking a precautionary step out of reach and towering above where Will remains, kneeling on the floor.

Surprisingly, there’s no further fighting. Will doesn’t try to lunge for Hannibal, teeth snapping at the man’s throat in the effort to tear into it, and he doesn’t attempt to yank himself free from his binds. Instead, Will simply gives a petulant grumble in defeat and moves to drop himself back amongst the wrinkled and messy pile of sheets on the floor.

Hannibal watches with an expression of mild amusement as Will pouts now, more than he really throws any kind of fit - not this time. Progress. It instills some kind of hope into the back of the cannibal’s mind.

Stepping back into Will’s range, Hannibal leans down just enough to card fingers into his hair, petting gentle and warm, before scratching behind his ear. 

Even his angry grumbling has come to a quiet halt by the time Hannibal draws his hand away...

And finally unchains Will.


End file.
